The Sovereignty of Tears
by Caera1996
Summary: Kink Meme Fill for the prompt: Kirk is a whore in a little-known whore house. He's not there willingly. From the owner's perspective. Added a Part 3, because I dreamed it. Summary: Saving him. Now complete. I think. Maybe.
1. Chapter 1

Author: Caera1996  
Rating: Hard R  
Disclaimer: Nothing, not even the idea, is mine.  
WC: 453

Original Prompt:  
Kirk is a whore in a little-known whore house. He's not there willingly. Since the place isn't well-known/doesn't have a lot of cash/is cheap their 'clients' are not very nice; they're looking for a cheap fuck or warm body to use however they want. Kirk's become the most sought after whore there because word's gotten around that he's the best the place has to offer. He's about as happy as a snowman in the middle of the desert.

I'd like to see this from the owner's perspective. He has cameras recording everything that goes on. Does he watch them? How does he market Kirk to 'clients'? Does he use Kirk as well? What do 'clients' ask to do with Kirk?

Basically, I'd live a fic about rape through a voyeur's eyes.

* * *

He cries. Usually at night…and only when he's alone. Or when he thinks he's alone. He's never _truly_ alone. None of them are – because every now and then one of them gets it into their head that "they've had it!" or "they just can't take it anymore!" and try to take matters into their own hands. But nothing's in their own hands. Not when or what they eat, not when or if they sleep, and definitely not who or how they fuck.

That's _my_ choice…as choices go. Not many client choices, but the ones who visit my little establishment visit often and are always…entertaining. Maybe not so much for the merchandise, but for me. _Ohhh_, so definitely, for me.

Especially when they choose him. I love it when they choose him.

He is – especially beautiful. I've never been able to figure out how much of his beauty is _his_, and how much of it is a result of his surroundings…that they're so ugly he stands out even more, you know? He's beautiful – burnished gold and intensely crystalline blue and rosy pinks that darken into calescent reds as his body flushes with anger or arousal or humiliation. And when one of the clients has him, it's usually all three, in that order.

He's a popular desire, but I won't give him to just anyone. Oh no. His time with the clients is as much for me as it is for them, and I only give him to those clients who like to do with him what _I_ want to see and hear. I know who can make him beg – drawing his unwilling arousal so tautly he's vibrating with the _need_, even as the hate smoulders like the hottest blue flame. I know who can make him scream – arms and legs jerking as just enough force to cause stinging welts, but not enough to break skin, forces him to give up his stubborn silence. I know who can make him tremble – making him wear a blindfold, tying his arms and legs, teasing him with his fear of not knowing what was going to happen next.

And on the rare occasion I lose myself in his delectable body, and I have the opportunity to make him beg and scream and shake…it's like we're the only two people in the world, and I can do whatever I want, and he has no choice but to give in…giving me _everything_.

The only thing I've never been able to do, no matter how I tried, is make him cry. He holds onto his tears because it's the last thing he has that's still _his_. His only choice. Until I leave, and he thinks he's alone.

And then he cries.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Sovereignty of Tears, Part 2  
Author: Caera1996  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Nothing, not even the idea, is mine.  
WC: 681

Explanation for Part 2:

Embarrassed to admit, I wrote it mostly for my own peace of mind. I just wanted to throw Jim a lifeline.

* * *

He hated coming out here. It was dark and oppressive, even in day's pale light. Sunlight lost its life-giving qualities here…there was no warmth, there was no energy. All it did was provide illumination. It did nothing to lift the shroud that seemed to hang on the decrepit buildings crouched together over pitted streets, wrapping any who wandered there in sticky threads of quiet despair and melancholy.

As bleak as the sunlight was, it was still better than darkness. Only the most dire of emergencies would draw him out this far at night, when all manner of living nightmares awaited the unwary. He was a lot of things – damaged, brilliant (in his own way), weighed down and weary – but he was not unwary. Not anymore.

He studied the buildings, unsure of his final destination, the comfortable heft of his bag focusing him. This place that he'd been sent to was not one of the usual requests he fielded. But it wasn't his choice. He went where they told him to go. Looking for the landmark that was described to him, he hesitated. This could be it. There was no sign – nothing to indicate that anyone lived here, much less ran a "business" here. On the other hand, he was well aware that this wasn't the type of business that wanted its presence known.

He sighed, gathering himself before announcing himself. He could be here for anything, he knew, and tried to be prepared. He knew that if there ever was a time when he didn't need to prepare himself, it was time to get out. He wasn't there yet, so after another moment, he knocked.

Led through the surprisingly clean and ordered establishment, he is struck by how quiet it is. The kind of quiet that often found its way into sick rooms at the eleventh hour. And he supposed that made sense. He was sure that death lived here, in one form or another; there was very little difference between death of a body and the loss of will. He was shown to a room, warned about his role and that he had not paid for use, and left. He was under no misapprehensions, though. He was not actually left alone.

Entering the room, his eyes are drawn to movement on the bed. A body is curled up, head tucked down, mostly obscured by a sheet. Clenching his jaw at the sharply metallic tang of blood in the air, he makes his way over. He crouches by the bed and his first words meant to comfort the fear he almost always encountered never made it past his lips. Hardened hazel eyes are caught by dulled, but clear, blue…and something changes. And in that moment, he realizes that he's changed forever.

He's watched with no small amount of anxiety and obvious unease – eyes fever bright that is echoed in the flush of his cheeks, the thin sheen of clammy perspiration over his skin.

"You're going to be okay," he says soothingly, carefully reaching out to gently place a hand on his head. He doesn't miss the shaky breath, the quiet relief, the anxiety recede as he has a similar realization, and the tears well but don't fall. "I…" He paused, licking his lips nervously. He what? He was going to get him out of here? He was going to save him? What the hell was he thinking?

Nothing. He wasn't thinking at all. He was feeling. And acting. And he would figure it out as they went. Because it was going to be "they". He didn't know anything else, but he knew that. He hadn't looked away, caught in the blue that seemed too…full of life to be here. Too whole.

"You're going to be okay," he says again. The only thing that makes any sense in his head right now, and he sees comprehension, and something else, in the blue eyes still steadily looking back at him. He places it after a moment, something that he'd been without for so long, he'd almost forgotten what it was.

He sees hope.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Sovereignty of Tears, Part 3  
Author: Caera1996  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Nothing, not even the idea, is mine.  
WC: 574

Original Prompt:  
Kirk is a whore in a little-known whore house. He's not there willingly. Since the place isn't well-known/doesn't have a lot of cash/is cheap their 'clients' are not very nice; they're looking for a cheap fuck or warm body to use however they want. Kirk's become the most sought after whore there because word's gotten around that he's the best the place has to offer. He's about as happy as a snowman in the middle of the desert.

I'd like to see this from the owner's perspective. He has cameras recording everything that goes on. Does he watch them? How does he market Kirk to 'clients'? Does he use Kirk as well? What do 'clients' ask to do with Kirk?

Basically, I'd live a fic about rape through a voyeur's eyes.

Explanation/Summary for Part 3:

I dreamed it, so I figured I may as well write it down. – Saving him.

* * *

He sees hope.

And, more amazingly, he sees trust.

As unexpected, out of place, and inexplicable as this is, it's also undeniable, unmistakable, and it echoes within him. It's as if this person, this errand, he's been sent to attend to, was someone the most important parts of him already knew.

It was disconcerting. It was also unquestionable.

"I know," he says, his voice hushed and roughened by lack of use…or strain. He doesn't think too much on which. Shaking himself out of it, he pulls his hand back and gestures to his medical bag.

"You're hurt…sick…I need to…" he trails off, gesturing to fill in the blank - heal him, fix him, save him. _How?_ The blonde head nods, and he uncurls slightly, painfully… allowing him access to do what he was brought here to do.

He works silently, efficiently, forcing down the anger he feels at the injuries he finds…the abuse this body has suffered. _Save him how?_ He glances up at his face…eyes closed, body held with the instinctive tension of a person who has experienced force in the most personal and potentially devastating way.

And suddenly, he has an idea.

Completing what he can in these crude conditions, he reaches into his bag – he is brilliant in his own way. He whispers his plan as he leans over him to press his ear to his chest, to peel back his eyelids, to pinch his nose closed and breathe into him, to thrust the smallest measure of his strength onto his chest…to slide the needle into the crook of his elbow and depress the plunger smoothly.

"Trust me…" he whispers into his hair. He is answered by only the slightest of nods… they are not actually alone.

Moments later, he exits the room and is met right outside the door.

_60 minutes_

"What happened?" Annoyance, anger.

He shook his head, transforming his disgust into defensiveness. "He was too far gone. Nothing else I could do. Maybe if I was called sooner-" He's cut off by an annoyed gesture and a look of pure disdain.

"Get the fuck out. He was my best piece of merchandise – I'm not paying you a dime."

He turns as if to go…hesitates…turns back.

"How much?" Lowly, a hint of shame coloring desire. He is brilliant in his own way.

"What?"

"Simple question. How. Much?"

"You want the body? Why?"

_52 minutes_

He shrugs. Avoids eye contact. "Practice." He glances up, eyes dark as his lip curls slightly. "And he's…pretty. So how much?"

Greed, in all its forms, is a powerful tool.

A price is set and demanded. He agrees. Pays. Hires two pieces of merchandise for help with transport of the body. Makes it to his own place.

_11 minutes_

He tenderly lays him out on his bed, one hand grasping his wrist to count out the slowed beats of depressed respiration. He watches him…eyelashes fluttering as the drug releases its grip on him. Gently, he smoothes his hair back from his forehead, murmuring soft words of comfort, anticipating the confusion that accompanies the first few moments of consciousness.

_1 minute_

Blue eyes blink open slowly, hand clenching reflexively around the one holding his.

"You're okay," he says softly, hearing a hitch in his breathing. "You're safe." He takes a couple of deep breaths, eyes locking on the care-worn face looking down at him. Tears fill his eyes.

"I know," he breathes.

And he cries.


End file.
